


tenth time the charm

by spacestationtrustfund



Series: kiss kiss bang bang [1]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Character Study, M/M, can dream-things consent to . . . anything?, excessive love of cars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 14:40:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5789197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacestationtrustfund/pseuds/spacestationtrustfund
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kings can’t be friends with their servants, but sometimes it gets a bit lonely, with only dreams and followers and monsters. That’s how it’s always been. (The Molotov remix.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	tenth time the charm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dirtybinary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtybinary/gifts).



> Warnings for (at varying levels of severity): underage drinking, drug use, dub-con, suicide, child abuse, and generally unhealthy relationships.

I.

The first thing K takes out is a gun. Or it’s not, really, but it’s the first time he really understands, really gets it, really _knows –_ there are times before that, of course. One of his earliest memories, from when he was about five, is of waking up from a dream about cats clawing his skin to find his father sitting at the foot of the bed, a white Persian nestled in the skeleton of his arms. His father removed the cat and gathered him up instead, and it hadn’t mattered, not the dreams that were too saturated to be real, like films that came to life and chased after him through invisible trees – none of it mattered, because his father was home.

He doesn’t know what became of the cat; probably it ran away, with no one to feed it. K’s considered running, throwing himself and nothing else into the Mitsubishi and never coming back, but something has him tied down, something has its hooks and claws buried in his skin and won’t let him leave the goddamn town, he can’t leave, he can’t leave, he can’t –

It was so much easier to say _Yeah, my dad’s a mobster_ ; not even Lynch, with his miracle-monster-magician of a father, could claim that. It was so much easier to adhere to that part of his life, to pretend, to feign ignorance, to act as if there weren’t bruises on his skin – polychrome road maps of black and yellow and purple that never led anywhere but back to the beginning – or knife cuts, or burn marks, or imprints of fingers and nails and knuckles – always out of sight, always somewhere that no one would think to look. And after all, K’s not sure if anyone ever will – really look, that is. It’s just, he thought Lynch was a little more like him than like everyone else.

 

II.

He doesn’t do it for his mother, not any of it. It would be so much easier if he could hate her, despise those heavy-lidded, bloodshot eyes staring after him; the sight of her in the kitchen, holding a knife and screaming at his father; the drugged slur of her voice: _Joseph, you had better not be taking the Evo, you know what your father said about_ – But he can’t hate her; he has to hate himself instead. It’s a fair trade, K says to himself. Fucking equality. Entitlement and all that shit. Get the hell out of here. He doesn’t do it for her.

Why does he do it? There could be a thousand reasons, a plethora of causes spitting resentment like poison in his face, and not a single one of them matters because he didn’t do it for her. She can burn in hell for all K cares, except – he’s already been in hell, so if she has to burn, at least make it somewhere far away from him. K might have a dead father, but a zombie mother is no better. He almost wishes he hadn’t lost his taste for killing people when he shot Proko that first time. Everything was so much better in Jersey.

 

II.

The gun is an accident, the first time it happens; afterwards, it’s always on purpose. At the time K doesn’t even know what power dreams can hold, how he can take something from his head, shape it, create it, bring it into screaming colour in the real world. If there’s any such thing, K thinks, because if this is life, well, he’s not sure he wants to live it. He goes to bed with bruises painted in purple and yellow streaks on his face, his neck, his wrists; memories of his father’s anger, his disappointment. _What are you good for?_ Nothing. Always nothing. Just because he’s not a mobster or a druggie. So what?

K doesn’t mean to bring out a gun. Why would he think of it? Even if he could have the guts to do something, there’s no place to hide a body. But when he wakes up, rolls over, winces as sharp shards of pain stab on his bruised ribs – there it is. Cold, dark, shiny. More real than he had imagined. It opens up a whole new realm of possibilities – what can he do? No, better: what _can’t_ he do?

Fire a gun, apparently. But he can learn. And hell, he doesn’t mean to shoot – isn’t this his life? _I didn’t mean to._ You didn’t mean to crash the fucking car into a goddamn telephone pole? Automotive chicken. _I’ve never been good at stopping, you know that –_ But you don’t know shit. And it’s true, he thinks, looking down at his father’s body on the floor, fingers outstretched in a puddle of his own blood, fingers that had been wrapped around his neck just a moment before –

No. Because he didn’t mean to kill his father, didn’t mean to kill anyone, he just wanted –

Out. That’s all he wanted. He wanted a way out, wanted it all to stop, wanted it to be over, and . . . well, that’s what he got, isn’t it? It is. _It is._ And never mind the ghosts that tear into his flesh that night, monsters, demons, nightmares, whatever the hell he calls them it does no difference when they have him pinned down and are tearing strips of his skin off and bathing his face in his own blood. Never mind the screams his mother makes, some moment of sick realisation, some instant where the cocaine hasn’t completely controlled her brain from the fucking inside. Never mind the trouble of getting rid of the body – hands wet with blood, cold slippery flesh, those dead eyes – no, forget all about it. Fuck it all.

He tries not to think about how he has no one left, no father who’s living, no mother who’s sane, and about the future – what he can do, what he can create, what he can be. He puts the gun in his glove compartment, so that when his dreams get a little bit too real he can deal with it without being torn to pieces, and takes his father’s Mitsubishi when he leaves, because _it’s a fucking good car, Joseph, how the hell do you think I can replace this baby?_ He’s got something better to do.

 

III.

Street racing is something that K carries with him from the old self to the new: he’s begun to divide himself into two, the person he was _before_ and the person he is _after._ This is nothing new for him; he’s used to cutting himself in half, one side for school and life and fuck-all else, one side for home and life and _fuck you, you bastard._ It’s just – maybe he thought there could be something more, and maybe he’s a little disappointed that it’s pretty much the same.

 

IV.

The dreaming is different, now. It used to be that he was at the mercy of whatever the hell lived in his head, and all he could do was run and run and they always caught up with him anyway, like a goddamn merry-go-round. Now K knows he fight back, he can lie in wait in the skeleton trees and hunt the monsters that hunted him for so long. He has a gun in his glove compartment, and he uses it; he’s become quite good at aiming. How foolish it seems, now, that he could ever not know how to shoot.

Proko’s the reason he gets into street racing. It was always something different, something he thought he would like to try, only – he didn’t have a car, and his father would kill him, actually kill him, not just threaten to the way it always was – but now he has a car, a fucking Mitsubishi Evolution, white as death and twice as dangerous. So he drives at night when he should be sleeping (fuck this, he’ll never sleep again) and meets up with his friends.

Friends, he calls them, and it’s fucking weird then too, because he’s never had friends before. Followers? Henchmen? But that’s his father speaking again, and if there’s one thing K doesn’t want it’s –

So it’s him and Proko. How does he meet Proko? It doesn’t matter. A sly look in the halls of that bastard school; a whispered _Kavinsky, you asshole_ and _Prokopenko, you’re no better_ ; a deal made – shared homework, alcohol, drugs, cars, girls. Not that K’s into girls, really, but he knows better than to be out of style. And Proko’s not that bad, really; that motherfucker can race like a bitch, and K has to admire that. So he asks Proko to teach him.

And Proko does. And it progresses, the same way everything does, until K’s letting Proko into the Mitsu, the secret-prison-home-world he never shows anyone; he’s telling Proko about all the shit with his father; he’s explaining to Proko (as best as he can, of course) about the dreams. And then they’re shotgunning down an empty road at midnight with the radio turned up and the night wind tugging at the windows and it’s this, here, now, _them_ –

 _I_ _’m a monster_ , he tells Proko – the real Proko, not the copy, or maybe not the real one, K’s never sure any more which is the real one and which is not, but he’s beginning to suspect it doesn’t matter – he says it almost jokingly, matter-of-fact, because it _is_ a fact, nothing more and nothing less. They’re in the Evo; Proko’s probably the only person – dream? nightmare? – K lets ride in the Mitsubishi.

Proko exhales a breath of smoke out over the dash and says, _No one cares that you don’t swing towards chicks._

And that’s not what he meant, not at all, but in a way K’s glad of Proko’s misunderstanding, because it means Proko doesn’t exactly know about what K’s dreams can do – does a dream know it’s a dream?

So he pretends that’s all it is, that’s the reason he keeps staring at Lynch – well, it’s partly that, since Lynch is attractive enough even with the shaved head and wicked smile, and it’s also partly _that_. K knows that Lynch is like him, knows the other boy can take things out of dreams, knows that there are monsters that chase Lynch from sleep to waking and leave his skin flayed and painted with blood, seeping into the carpet, leaving a stain you can’t explain the same way you can’t explain why your father’s business trip to New Jersey has taken years and he’s heard nothing, nothing –

So when Proko grabs his collar and shoves him back against the wall, hands in K’s shirt and hair and wrapped around his neck, but for once he doesn’t mind having someone else’s fingers on his throat – well, it’s everything K’s ever dreamt of it being, and at first he wonders if, maybe, it _is_ a dream. But _no_ , it’s real, Proko’s real, and K’s real, and the world is so fucking big and dark and impossible and K’s so scared of fucking up again. So he lets Proko kiss him senseless, lets him fist his hands in K’s hair and drag him down, and maybe no one cares if K doesn’t swing towards chicks, but right then he’s almost glad he doesn’t.

Proko’s mouth is hot and he kisses rough and dirty, lips and tongue and hands, a reduction of all things; it doesn’t matter who they are, what they are, why they are, where they are –

Well, it matters where they are. K breathes out, _Fuck, you bastard,_ and then he’s dragging Proko out to the Mitsubishi, white as bone, and shoving him in the back seat and crawling in after him. _Shit,_ Proko says, arching his back, and K digs his fingers into Proko’s hair and recovers himself enough to say, _I don’t do public sex, so you’ll have to wait,_ and Proko hisses and bites him – _You fucking asshole, I swear, why do I even like you_ – and K forgets thinking, forgets dreaming, forgets being –

And then Skov bangs his fists on the windshield and hollers, _You two fags gonna race or not?_ Proko shoves K off him and spits out a string of curses, his hands tugging up his shirt collar to cover the blotchy red marks K’s given him, marks K knows he has the matching set for. _These are the nicest bruises I’ve gotten in a while,_ he thinks, and must have said out loud too, because Proko’s eyes widen and he sits back as best as he can, thoughtful.

 _You said that shit with your dad had stopped. Were you lying?_ Proko says, and K doesn’t know what to say to that; _you know you can tell me and I can do something about it if you want me to,_ but K, well, the thing is that K _can’t_ really tell Proko about it any more than he already has. Yeah, the shit with his dad has stopped, but only to be replaced with nightmares of retribution, reciprocation, _pain_ –

He’s told Proko enough already, told him too much; Proko knows him inside and out (if the stuff in his head doesn’t matter) and shouldn’t that – it’s just, shouldn’t that be enough?

And so K climbs back up to the driver’s seat, and turns the key in the ignition with a sound like snapping bone, and Proko takes his place next to him, and they race and for a moment it feels like nothing else matters – not how broken, how _wrong_ K knows he is; not the fact that his dreams want to choke the life right out of him; not the way the light burns in Proko’s blood-black eyes when K catches himself paying too much attention. None of it matters, nothing matters, except the moment before he wins: the dizzying grasp of his fingers on the wheel, the shudder of the Mitsubishi as it shakes beneath his hands, the groan of the wheels spinning on the asphalt, the catch and release of the engine, forcing his heartbeat up into his bruised throat. This is what it is to matter; this is what it is to _be_.

 

V.

Proko’s a bit too quiet, a bit too patient, a bit too kind; K could come up with a thousand normal, ordinary reasons to delineate the reason why he notices his best friend – boyfriend? Lover? accomplice? – is not the same as a dream, not the same when he’s a copy instead of the real thing; Proko’s a bit too compliant, a bit too doting, a bit too tame, but when it really comes down to it, it’s the way he kisses that makes all the difference.

And okay, it’s really fucking romantic when it does come down to that one stupid reason, but it’s true – Proko kisses hard and fast and doesn’t care if he leaves marks, doesn’t care about what they do as long as no one sees, doesn’t care what he says when it’s just them in the Mitsu on a dark road at night; this new creature, this forgery, this dream-Proko is a bit too gentle, a bit too loving, a bit too soft. The real Proko is fire and kerosene, bloodied knuckles and broken bones – it’s one of the things K likes best about him – and dream-Proko is all compliance and obedience and _I don’t know; what do you think?_

Maybe it’s not all that bad – K’s always wanted someone to worship him – but the first time he gives in, it’s so _wrong,_ more so than it was before; and not the thrill of danger and recklessness and the fear of discovery, the sickening swoop of _This isn’t right_ ; these kisses are all yielding and slow and careful, and K, well, maybe it’s not all that bad, but it’s not the same, and that’s what makes all the difference.

So he goes back to racing and drinking and dreaming – are there others like him? Except Lynch, of course; K knows all about Lynch – what he hasn’t heard from the other boys, he fills in himself. They’re remarkably alike, K thinks. Two boys, both dreamers, both thieves; both with dead fathers and useless mothers; both made of sparks and steel and fists and pain. K wonders – he wonders if Lynch killed his father too.

 

VI.

There are others now, Skov and Swan and Jiang, boys whose first names K either never knew or has forgotten, boys who are perfectly content to be accomplices and henchmen and members of K’s pack, boys who, like K himself, are composed of fire and alcohol and cars and EDM and racing and fists and knives. The ingredients to make a monster – everything hanging on for dear life, ready to fly apart at any moment. _Bang._

K’s not even sure where they come from, honestly – one day it’s just him, then it’s him and Proko – _him and Proko_ – then it’s him and Skov, Swan, Jiang, Proko. That’s who they are: a collection of words; singular names; short, clipped syllables. Now he’s _Kavinsky_ to the rest of them and _K_ if it’s Proko; _Joseph_ is for the life he’s left behind, for the beatings and bruises and blood in his mouth, and for Joseph, what did I tell you? Exactly what did you do to my car, Joseph? Tell me, Joseph, do you enjoy lying to me? You know what happens when you lie to me, Joseph, don’t you –

But none of that matters, none of it, not when he’s got friends (friends?) growing up out of the woodwork and a great fucking car and a gateway to unlimited hell in his head and an empty road stretching out before him, dark and glittering, and there’s nowhere to go but up.

 

VII.

Blame it on Lynch that he really starts thinking about what he can do with the dreams. The Fourth of July parties start because he can’t find a good way to fill the ragged hole in him, and they keep happening after the other boys (does he meet them during the Fourth? K thinks that might be it, maybe, it’s as likely as not) agglomerate (fucking SAT word, all that shit) and Proko dies and comes back and all that shit. All that shit! And something about it has enough allure to draw in crowds. K’s not surprised; everyone wants to watch monsters play, as long as they don’t have to get near enough to feel the teeth.

 

VIII.

It’s his fault that Proko died – got killed, that is, there’s a big difference and none of it was Proko’s fault – in the first place, even if K isn’t sure what the reason was in the real world, because he’s dreamt it so many times when he’s trying to get over something he can’t help. He’s not even sure how it happened; the dreams have fucked with his reality enough that he doesn’t know what’s real and what’s not. Maybe a pressured-into game of automotive chicken, or a ‘hey-let’s-try-this’ kind of drug, or a drinking game that went over the limit, or, the thing he fears the most, one of K’s dreams itself?

But _shit_ , Proko’s the closest person K’s ever had to family, dead because of him. So (because what else can he do?) he panics and it’s on accident the first time, he’s not intending to do it, but there’s something wrong, and he didn’t mean to, but when he wakes up he sees a person staring at him and he thinks it’s his friend but _no,_ he knows it’s not, he would recognise Proko anywhere.

It doesn’t take much to shoot this badly-done copy in the head with the gun he always keeps in the glove compartment of his Mitsu, it doesn’t take much at all, because K is used to the monsters from his dreams taking on the looks of his friends and his teachers and, in his worst nightmares, his father. And it’s no trouble at all to get rid of the body, because this isn’t Proko, and he knows this much, and right now, Proko’s all he wants to have.

But then he starts to wonder: He did this. What if he could do it again? Maybe he _can_ get Proko back, because it’s all K’s fault that his best friend is dead in the first place, so if it’s his fault then he can get him back. So he dreams up a bottle of booze and a packet of red pills that he doesn’t recognise but must do something because he made them up, and sets out to dream back his best friend. The first time he wakes up with Proko looking back at him it’s terrifying, how happy he is, the rush of adrenaline that jolts through him – _I can do this._ But then he notices, _Something is off about this._ This isn’t Proko, not the Proko that K knew. Maybe he’s a little bit too gentle, a little bit too skinny, a little bit too willing to listen – whatever it is, this isn’t Proko. So K takes out the gun again.

He keeps trying. He keeps thinking, oblivious, that he can do it again. He just has to get I right one more time – but the scary thing is that he’s starting to merge the dream-Proko with the real-Proko in his head, and he can’t quite remember who Proko was, back when he was a real person. He thinks he used to know these things, but who can remember the precise eye colour, the length of hair, the shade of skin? Did Proko have uneven eyebrows? Freckles? High cheekbones? K doesn’t know any more, and call him sentimental if you want a punch in the face, but that hurts almost as much as killing the dreams that didn’t quite turn out right.

He takes a break for a while, thinking again that _no,_ maybe he was right the first time when he thought there was no way to get Proko back. The dead stay dead stay dead, after all, and maybe it’s the wrong thing to do to try to get them to come back to life. But K is a thief if he is anything, and he’s something all right, so he’s not gonna let death fuck him over like that when it was his fault in the first place – he wants his friend back, and _shit_ but he’s going to get what he wants.

So he gets another bottle of alcohol and more sleeping pills, the real kind, because he doesn’t trust himself enough to dream the proper thing and not make something terrible again, and sets off to get his friend back for real. And it doesn’t work at first, even after all that lead-up, partly because K is still not sure what Proko really was, and has to remind himself, and _shit_ he’s so terrified he’ll forget forever. How many people has he lost before he knew he could get them back?

And K keeps dreaming, keeps making copies of his best friend, and that’s how he gets so good at forging, that’s how he becomes the master thief everyone knows – because yeah, he’s always had a flair for forgeries, but it’s so much different when you really care about what you’re making. And in the end he comes up with something that’s close enough, and maybe K just doesn’t remember what part of Proko is real and what’s a dream, but what he made for himself is close enough, and he’s sick of shooting his best friend in the head each time he wakes up – knowing he’s done it wrong again, knowing he can never get it right.

K knows he doesn’t have much left in him, that if he doesn’t make something soon then he never will, and he needs to do this one thing to prove to himself that he isn’t completely the monster his father said he was. So he tries again, and again, and then he’s done, he’s made an entirely new Proko, one who’s a little bit taller, a little bit nicer, a little bit more willing to do whatever the hell K wants him to do – but who is he to know who Proko was in the first place, anyway?

 

IX.

Kings can’t be friends with their servants, but sometimes it gets a bit lonely, with only dreams and followers and monsters. That’s how it’s always been; K is never sure is that’s how it’s supposed to be or not. But more and more he finds himself making excuses to get away from the lot of them. He’s sick of Skov and Swan messing around in the back seats of their cars, he’s sick of Jiang being a motherfucking snob, he’s sick of Proko being nothing, nothing – he’s sick of it all. So he goes to find Lynch.

The thing about Ronan Lynch is that he would be a great addition to K’s collection, but he doesn’t quite fit. This would be really fucking inconsequential if this was because Lynch didn’t have certain qualities or whatever, but the reason is only because he doesn’t want to run with them, and that’s the catch.

It’s also what gets K, what really _gets_ him, but he tries not to let that part get in the way. He wants to convince Lynch to race – the other boy has a car that isn’t shitty, and he drives well enough, better than Jiang and Swan and even Skov, better than Proko used to be – but it’s wasted if someone doesn’t clue him in. So K does.

It takes a while (too long, which can be anything from a few minutes to years, depending on K’s mood) to find Lynch when he’s not with Dick Gansey or that trailer trash boy he’s probably fucking, and when K finds him it’s in the parking lot of Nino’s, and he’s got the BMW, and it’s glorious. K wants to drive it, wants to see how it responds to his touch, wants to see how fast it can go. Pretty fucking fast, he bets.

 _What the fuck do you want,_ Lynch says amiably; they’ve talked in the halls, or what compensates for talking at a place like Aglionby, but this is the first time they’ve come face-to-face without Dick Gansey in between.

K considers it. What _does_ he want? _Is the car good?_ he asks, letting his eyes slice over the silver-grey paint, the scuff marks carefully covered up on the bumpers, the shiny chrome of the wheel covers. He knows the answer.

_Of course it is. I’m driving it, aren’t I?_

_Do you race, ever?_

_No._ Lynch lets out a slow breath, but K thinks he can see interest on his face. _Should I?_

K shrugs. _You know where to find me._ Then, before Lynch can do anything else (like leave, that shithead), K grabs the guy’s phone and swipes it open. Lynch doesn’t use a passcode; he doesn’t look particularly upset about K’s having taken the device, anyway. He just raises an eyebrows coolly as K punches in his number and sends himself a text: _hey sexy._ Then he hands the phone back and says, grinning, _Call me._

 

X.

His life is a mix of faded neon lights, fluorescent traffic signals, polychrome cars, smudged glass doors, grimy linoleum tables, cracked vinyl seats, and gritty, rough darkness. It’s a fucking blur of everything, and he’s still nothing, still nothing more than those hands about his neck; _Joseph, if you lie to me one more time_ ; nothing more than those flashing traffic lights and the smell of gasoline and sweat and metal; nothing more than fists in his hair, fingers gripping his wrists, teeth dragging over his bottom lip; nothing more than bloodied knuckles and sharp hissed curses spat from bruised, puffy mouths; _that complete motherfucking shithead – I’m gonna kill that bastard_ ; sharp glares and terrifying, threatening friendships. This is what he has been, this is what he is, this is what he will be – and maybe, K thinks, maybe, maybe there’s nothing else to be.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> well shit, huh?
> 
> ([Tumblr](spacestationtrustfund.tumblr.com).)


End file.
